


Survivors' Guilt / For All the World

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Biblical References, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Inspired by Real Events, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-01
Updated: 2005-10-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the consequences of surviving immortality in one piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Survivors' Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in August of 2005.

 

**The Fall**

It was a dark and stormy night, and nobody was enjoying it.

The ground, newly sodden, was so cold that it made Crawly's scales ache. If he hadn't been able to see in the darkness, he would've been done for. The streams had filled to overflowing, and he preferred to avoid being washed away. After all, he wasn't such a large snake, and he didn't like getting wet unless the sun was on hand to dry him.

Thunderstorms, as far as Crawly was concerned, were a bad move on His part.

Somewhere, far off in the forest, the humans were probably huddled under a convenient crag of rock, warming their hands and stretching their frozen limbs by the fire. Now, there was something he'd give anything for, except he couldn't find the angel anywhere, and even if he could, the angel had given the bloody sword away.

 _Bloody_ , Crawly thought. _Rather a good swear_.

In front of him, the grass felt damp, as opposed to outright sodden.

Curiously, he flicked out his tongue, then glanced upward. Perhaps He had something of a sense of humor after all, and was inclined to put convenient rock crags in the Garden where there hadn't been rock crags before. Or maybe somebody else was more practical than Crawly had initially given him credit for.

"Ssssomebody there?" he hissed, momentarily chilled by the echo of his own voice.

The rain pattered loudly, dripping off the leaves and long grass.

Crawly slithered closer, shivering as he glided through a puddle. He paused for a moment, feeling the shape of it. It wasn't so much a puddle as a foot-sized indentation in the mud, and it was relatively fresh.

"Hallo?" he asked again.

"Go away," answered a familiar, miserable voice. "There's no room."

"I'm quite small, in case you'd forgot," Crawly persisted. He edged closer to the overhang and found it even drier still. He smelled the burnt-out remnants of a failed fire, and he could see a shape lying stretched out at the back of the cave, its wings stretched out long, pale, and luminous behind it. "You won't even know I'm here."

"That's ridiculous," said the angel, intent upon facing the back wall. "I already know."

Gathering his courage, Crawly slipped inside, glad to be out of the storm whether he was welcome there or not. He shook himself as well as he could manage.

"What I mean is, you can _pretend_ I'm not here," he explained, much less wet than before, but still cold. "I'll be quiet, and then—"

"Somehow, I think being quiet isn't your strong suit," replied the angel, rolling over unexpectedly. As his wings collided with the ceiling, he winced, winching them in.

"Well, nobody's perfect," Crawly said reasonably, flicking his tongue out in the cool air. The angel smelled warm and clean, which seemed unfair, considering they had been squelching about in the same storm and lying about in the same dust.

"You least of all," said the angel with distaste, squinting at him. "Though I suppose you _are_ awfully small, and you've up till now been very polite, so I suppose—"

"Thanksss," said Crawly, deadpan. "How touching."

"There's no call for that," said the angel. "If you're going to turn nasty, just forget—"

"Face it, angel," said Crawly, yawning so that his fangs were visible. "We're stranded."

The angel's pinched expression grew pained.

"No," he said in a tone much braver than he looked, "we're _stationed_."

"Really?" asked Crawly. "Where?"

"Er," said the angel, uncertainly. "Here. The Garden. Eden."

Crawly rolled his eyes.

"Why?"

"Well, the humans—"

"The humans got a one-way ticket out," Crawly reminded him. "Thanks to you."

" _And_ you," said the angel, stiffly. "The point being?"

"We're not stationed in Eden anymore," Crawly said, certain of that if nothing else. "As long as there are no humans here, why should we stay?"

The angel blinked at him, as if he hadn't given it any thought.

"I suppose not," he sighed, and lay down again, ruffling his feathers.

Crawly shivered, feeling very alone. Restless, he uncoiled himself, instantly regretting it. He wasn't just cold anymore; he was freezing. He watched, enviously, as the angel shifted to get comfortable, folding his soft, warm-looking wings about himself.

Unthinking, Crawly sighed.

"It's your own fault," said the angel, tartly.

"What is?"

"That ridiculous skin you've got on. As bodies go, you could've chosen more wisely."

"I didn't _get_ to choose," Crawly hissed, irritated.

"Oh, I'd say your choice is _quite_ distinct."

"I didn't mean to," said Crawly, quietly.

Pity was all he could hope for.

"Not everybody did," said the angel, unexpectedly. He rolled over, mindful of his wings this time, and peered at Crowley curiously. "They haven't taken anything from you, have they? Down There, I mean."

"What do _you_ mean?"

"Abilities," explained the angel, propping his chin on his arms. "Powers. Talents. If they haven't stripped you of those, you could do something about— _er_." He paused, the guilty expression peeking out of its tent. "Not that I'm, ah, suggesting—"

Crawly closed his eyes and thought of what he could remember, and what he remembered was Heaven. He'd had wings, then, and limbs.

He'd had eyes, too, and a face.

"Oh dear," said the angel, the words quick and tight.

Crawly stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, finding the angel crouched and wary, his torn and mud-stained robe nearly falling off his shoulders. He spread his wings and watched the angel's mouth drop open. It was even more satisfying than being dry.

"That's—not possible," whispered the angel, harshly.

"On the contrary, _you_ told me it was," said Crawly, grinning. He tucked his tongue between his teeth, realizing he must've been fond enough of it to have kept a few of the original specifications. "Thanksss, angel."

"Don't call me that," snapped his companion—no. _Adversary_.

"What am I supposed to call you, then?"

"My name, in case you've forgotten, is Aziraphale."

"I had," said Crawly, studying the cave. The roof was a lot closer than he remembered it, and he realized that it was actually quite a small space. If he reached out, he'd be able to touch Aziraphale's arm, or even the tip of his wing. Not that he wanted—

"What am I supposed to call _you_?" Aziraphale asked unexpectedly.

"I don't know," said Crawly. "I had a name. It was—"

Crawly froze.

"Yes?"

"I don't remember," Crawly whispered.

"Well, it seems to me you had a name back when we had our little chat—"

"That wasn't it," said Crawly, beginning to panic. "It's just what they dubbed me Down There. It's not as if I _liked_ being called—"

"What was it, Crowley or some such?"

Crawly opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking for a moment.

"No," he said, turning the sound of what the angel had said over in his mind. "I mean—yes, that's it," he said, tentatively.

"It's not wretched, really," Aziraphale said, almost consoling. "I imagine there are worse names for a demon to have."

 _Demon_. Coming from somebody who was still in with Upstairs, it was an insult.

"You're no gem yourself," he said sourly.

"One does one's best," said Aziraphale, huffily, and turned his back again. "So, _serpent_ , if you would so kindly _excuse_ me, I'd—"

"That's _Crowley_ to you," he hissed, and turned his face to the storm.

 

 

**The Flood**

It hadn't been rainy for a number of days now, but Aziraphale's wings were soaked.

He knew how to swim, of course. All angels knew how to swim, and fly, and vanish, and any number of other actions that might be necessary for either transportation or survival purposes. At the moment, he was sitting on a piece of what had probably been somebody's house, feeling vaguely ill. It had something to do with the motion of the water, he was sure of it, and the fact that he couldn't seem to get warm even though the sun had shown up a few days ago and begun the process of drying things.

As far as Aziraphale knew, no one but those poor souls in the ark had made it. Briefly, he thought of the serpent, Crowley, and all the trouble he'd stirred up. None of this would have happened, really, if not for that bas—sorry creature. _He_ didn't just go wiping out entire planets for no reason at all. Crowley had gone around giving the humans ideas, and they'd gotten carried away, and before too long—

Out of the corner of his eye, about a mile off, he spotted a dark shape.

For a moment, Aziraphale felt a rush of relief. He had rather been hoping he wasn't alone in this mess, as it was quite a mess even by an angel's standards. Upstairs hadn't really thought it through well enough, in Aziraphale's opinion; he had no idea how they proposed to clean everything up once the waters decided to recede.

The shape had drifted closer, and it was waving.

Aziraphale sighed, recognizing the sharp-featured face and yellow eyes. He supposed that Crowley was probably feeling just as wet and alone as he was. Sometimes, you had to force a truce. Otherwise, nobody could get his job done properly.

" _Hallo!_ " Crowley called, his hands cupped around his mouth even though Aziraphale would have heard him perfectly well without the amplification. " _Is that you?_ "

" _Yes!_ " shouted Aziraphale, attempting to stand up. " _What are you doing here?_ " He wobbled back to his knees, nearly tipping the makeshift raft. By all appearances, Crowley's craft was very similar to Aziraphale's, only in worse condition.

" _That's a stupid question, angel!_ "

" _Don't call me that!_ "

" _Why are we shouting?_ "

Aziraphale caught his breath, startled to realize he'd _been_ breathing.

"I don't know," he said.

Across the distance, which was not so far, he watched Crowley break into a smile.

"Nice transport," Crowley said smugly.

"Not bad yourself," replied Aziraphale, guiltily.

"We could miracle some rope and lash these together," Crowley was saying, making excited gestures. "And then we could find a pole, take our clothes, and—"

"Rope will do," Aziraphale said hastily, reaching for the edge of Crowley's raft.

 

 

**The Fools**

Amidst the rubble, there was chaos.

Crowley covered his ears, but it didn't help. Everywhere he turned, there was another building that had been damaged by the tons of falling rock, another fire licking its smoky way into open daylight through jagged, crumbling bricks. None of this had even _remotely_ been his idea, much less Hell's. He was beginning to wonder about people. Pushing his way through a frantic, terrified crowd of them, he cursed Heaven for going ahead with another of its quick fixes without considering the consequences.

Uncovering his ears, Crowley winced.

Cacophony. Nonsense. Wide-eyed, he tried to pull a single coherent thread from amidst all the wailing and shouting and couldn't. _Think_ , he told himself. _You're supposed to understand anything; it's built-in. Sit down, take a deep breath, and think_. Crowley found an undamaged building and dashed behind it.

At his back, the stone wall was warm, and it felt good to sit down. Humans ran past, ignoring him in their panic. He heard a shriek to his left, a cry that stood out from the rest. Instead of grief or terror, it was the sheerest _joy_ he'd ever heard.

"Mother! Mother, you're _safe_!"

"Laila, is that—here, oh, sweeting, I'm _here_ —"

Crowley took another deep breath.

One down, two thousand to go. He sat perfectly still for what seemed like hours, uncomfortable with the hammering of his heart, listening with horrified fascination as voices linked and matched themselves, carving words from noise.

He hardly noticed when a shadow fell across him. He'd closed his eyes; he hardly needed them. The world was sounding itself out, and all he could do was wait for—

"Crowley?" The voice was tired, ragged, and _scared_. But it was familiar.

Crowley opened his eyes and unclenched his hands, glancing up.

"Aziraphale. What in Go—the bloody _he_ —er. Fancy meeting you here."

The angel looked relieved enough to cry.

"You understand me."

"Apparently," said Crowley, folding his arms across his chest.

"You _understand me_."

"Yes, I thought we'd established tha—"

The blow caught Crowley full-force across the mouth. He tasted blood and spat. Aziraphale was crouching in front of him, expression half angry and half remorseful.

"It's nothing less than you deserve."

"Didn't do it," Crowley muttered, plucking his left eye-tooth from the ground.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" Aziraphale asked, glaring.

"No," said Crowley, blowing the sand off his tooth. He shoved it back into place, wincing, then ran his tongue over it a few times until the throbbing stopped.

Aziraphale looked miserable.

"There's nothing about this in the Plans," Aziraphale was saying, wringing his hands nervously. "I had no idea this was coming, they just don't _tell_ you when—"

"Come on," Crowley said, scrambling to his feet, offering Aziraphale his hand.

The angel eyed him suspiciously.

"Where are we going?"

"To find a tavern that's not smashed, and _get_ smashed."

"Oh," said Aziraphale, blinking at Crowley's hand, and took it.

Several ruined blocks later, Crowley had to remind himself to let go.

 

 

**The Fire**

The air was approximately the color of sludge, and completely unbreathable.

Aziraphale beat his wings against the ash, eyes closed, pressing on blindly. The sky had the heat of a furnace, and he felt as if he'd been flying for hours. He'd been minding his own business in Petro's salon, chatting with the slave girl who'd been working on his nails, and suddenly there'd been an ungodly explosion.

Somewhere ahead of him, there was wind, and it smelled strongly of salt.

He'd settled on the city because it had been one of the more charming places he'd come across in the world, and the climate was usually quite agreeable. He'd always wanted to live on the sea, none of that sorry land-locked business he'd put up with for so long. The continent, he'd found, was a bit uncivilized and uninhabitable unless you wanted to put up with outlandish folk who fought nonstop amongst themselves and couldn't make a decent dessert to save their lives. Things were better in the south, in the peninsulas. People had latched onto the concept of culture, and, oh, the _wine_.

Aziraphale desperately wanted some.

Below him and around him, the ash was clearing into some semblance of a cloudy atmosphere. The sea shimmered dully through the mist, catching what little sunlight it could. Aziraphale thought of glancing over his shoulder, then thought better of it. That kind of thing could only get you in trouble, especially if this was Heaven's doing. Somehow, he hoped it wasn't: the people hadn't _done_ anything. He'd liked them.

Scanning the shoreline, Aziraphale looked for a place to touch down. There wasn't much chance of being seen, as an eruption of that magnitude wasn't likely to leave anybody behind to watch. Maybe some fishermen, though he couldn't see any.

From the ground, nothing was visible for miles except the thick, acrid wall of ash. Aziraphale sat down in the sand, exhausted, and stretched his wings. He fanned his fingers, frowning; only half of his fingers had been clipped, and the rest were quite the worse for wear. Absently, he bit his thumbnail, wondering if anyone had made it.

He'd half expected the hand on his shoulder, though it didn't stay.

"Looks like you got off easy," Crowley said, then coughed.

Aziraphale turned to look at him, momentarily shocked by what he saw. Crowley's hair and clothes were badly singed, and there was ash on him from forehead to ankles. He looked ready to keel over, or scream, or possibly both. Aziraphale hurried to his feet.

"Crowley, what on _earth_ —"

"Ever have a burning building fall on you?"

"Well, no, I managed to..." Aziraphale trailed off, glancing away. "No," he added quietly. "It can't have been pleasant," he amended, reaching to pat Crowley's arm.

Crowley flinched away, staggering, and plopped into the sand as if he'd meant to.

"I'm getting tired of this, you know," he said, accusingly.

"It wasn't my fault!" Aziraphale cried. "Those people have done nothing to deserve—"

"I know," said Crowley, his voice flat.

For long moments, Aziraphale hovered beside him, uncertain of what to do. Crowley ignored him, resting his arms on his knees, staring blankly out to sea. Hesitantly, Aziraphale turned his back and began to walk, following the tide.

He wondered if Crowley had loved Pompeii, too.

 

 

**The Fiddle**

The palace, like the rest of the city, was in flames.

Crowley stared out his window, vaguely interested.

If time had taught him anything, it was that you should avoid getting too attached (if you could manage). Civilizations rose, empires fell. Rome was no exception: neither the city, nor the empire. He stayed around for the entertainment, mostly. They threw fantastic parties, and every other emperor turned out to be a lunatic.

Downstairs, there was a commotion. He'd never bothered with well-mannered servants and slaves, as the more docile sort just weren't that interesting to have around. What he did expect them to take seriously, however, was the keeping of his grounds and his property, and the commotion pointed stridently to an intruder.

Crowley turned from the window, finding a terrified, trembling girl at his feet.

"Sir, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but he wouldn't—"

"No, I don't imagine he would," said Crowley, tapping the top of her head. "Get up. Now, there's a good girl. Tell Ninus to see him up, would you?"

"Yes, sir," gulped the servant, and fled.

Ninus looked somewhat irritated to be showing in a guest when anybody with a shred of sanity left should be fleeing for his life, but the villa hadn't caught fire yet, and it wouldn't. Not that Ninus knew that, and Crowley wasn't inclined to tell him. Free will and all that; he was sure he'd lose most of his staff by morning, but the ones that chose to stay would be rewarded for their trouble.

Aziraphale looked not so much irritated as weary.

"Not ours," he said, collapsing into the nearest chair.

"Not ours, either," said Crowley, not particularly caring what the servant might make of what he'd heard. "Ninus, might I trouble you for some wine?"

"Sir," he said, dully, and stalked out.

Aziraphale watched him leave, then looked at Crowley. He seemed to have gotten out of wherever he'd been staying without much damage, except his hair, usually arranged in careful, artful waves, was in the worst state Crowley had ever seen.

"I've got it figured out," Crowley explained, taking the chair across the table from Aziraphale, careful not to wrinkle his toga. "The buggers do it themselves."

"That's the only explanation this time around, I'm sure," said Aziraphale, glancing out the window. "Goodness, but you _do_ have an excellent view."

"I told you," Crowley said, gesturing for Ninus to quit dawdling in the doorway and pour the bloody wine already. "But you always insist on not visiting."

"I'm visiting now," replied Aziraphale, mildly offended.

"Yes, but it's taken the city going up in flames, hasn't it?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale watched Ninus pour him some wine, thanked him, and sent him away.

"I'm homeless," said the angel, wretchedly, and took a lengthy gulp.

"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away."

"I thought you said they do it themselves."

"They do, see, but I thought you'd appreciate that."

"Oh, as if you _cared_ ," said Aziraphale, tartly, into his glass.

"You're my guest," said Crowley. "I ought to at least make an effort at pretending."

"Bugger that," muttered the angel, tilting his glass upside-down.

"If you want," said Crowley. "I've heard some of the stable-hands are awfully good."

Aziraphale set the glass down forcefully on the table, glaring at him.

"Or not," said Crowley, cheerfully, raising his glass. "Cheers."

From across the city, a single, stringed note pierced the smoke, then faded into dawn.

 

 

**The Flowers**

It was becoming clear that the fourteenth century was not a good time to be alive.

As for being immortal, well, there wasn't much Aziraphale could do about that.

The plague had arrived with unaccountable suddenness, which made him certain that Crowley didn't have anything to do with it. Crowley tended to take his time, toy with things, ease his way in. The sickness—blue fever, they called it—was thorough and ruthless in ways that Crowley could only ever _hope_ to be, and Aziraphale wasn't even sure that Crowley was capable of hoping such a thing, especially not since they'd arrived at their Arrangement. It had been a few hundred years now, and things were going well. He'd always suspected there was a bit of good left in Crowley.

At the moment, Aziraphale was standing in a deserted church, staring down at the body of the priest. He'd done all he could, and so had the young lady who had fled with the companions that had finally come for her. There was not a soul left alive in all the town, and soon, forces well out of Aziraphale's jurisdiction would take over.

Still, it was horrifying to find oneself alone with only a corpse for company.

Quietly, the church doors creaked open.

"Before you say anything," Aziraphale sighed, stepping away from the priest's body, turning to face Crowley, "you ought to know that what happened here was—"

"A failed attempt at saving somebody's life," Crowley said, standing completely still, peering over Aziraphale's shoulder at the altar. "Hangs on the place. It brought me in."

Aziraphale nodded, wondering why it hadn't occurred to him that Crowley might otherwise have had difficulty entering a church. It wouldn't have been impossible, he supposed, but difficult and highly unpleasant all the same.

"It didn't feel right to leave him just yet," he sighed, staring at the priest.

Crowley stepped up beside him, radiating faint nervousness.

"Not ours to deal with," Crowley said, his voice rough.

"My dear, have you let yourself catch cold?"

"No," muttered Crowley, covering his nose with his sleeve. "Don't call me that."

"Sorry," said Aziraphale, watching his breath steam in the freezing air. "Still, I—"

Crowley flinched and made a pained sound deep in his throat.

"I think perhaps you ought to get out," Aziraphale said, taking him by the arm.

Crowley threw him off, wiping his nose, then his eyes.

" _Bastard_ ," he muttered, not fighting when Aziraphale took hold of him, "didn't _warn_ —"

"No," said Aziraphale, turning to lead him out. "There's never a warning on sacrifice."

 

 

**The Forge**

Crowley couldn't remember where he was, but he knew the wine was good.

He also knew he'd been at the same table for approximately three days. The chap who owned the cantina was perfectly happy to keep the drinks flowing as long as Crowley could remember where his purse was (and to refill it with gold from time to time).

Crowley also knew he'd seen a number of things in dark dungeons and towers that had made his stomach churn for the first time since that unfortunate construction accident he'd witnessed at Giza. Good excuse to get out of Egypt, he'd figured, hazardous to your body's existence. Alcohol was just as hazardous, he supposed, but only if you didn't clear a bit of it out every once in a while. He'd been just this side of plastered for forty-eight hours, and he intended to see if he could set a record.

Anything, _anything_ to forget.

The tabletop wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't giving Crowley splinters yet, so he'd keep his head down between drinks and hope that nobody got it into their head to haul him out and leave him in the street. He hoped the barkeep would tell them he was a paying customer. Sometimes, there was a lot of noise, and it made his head ache.

After a while, he realized that closing his eyes was a bad idea.

Crowley shivered, wondering why he hadn't bothered to bring a cloak.

As if in answer, somebody placed something warm and heavy across his shoulders, wrapping it carefully around to his front. Crowley let his head loll back against the nearest shoulder of whoever was covering him, because clearly this person was a dear, selfless soul and wouldn't mind him being sick and self _ish_.

"'Mgonnapuke," Crowley said.

"I daresay you are," said Aziraphale, and pressed a hand over Crowley's stomach.

For a few seconds, the nausea flared even worse than before. Helplessly, Crowley whimpered. He tried to squirm out of Aziraphale's embrace, but he was trapped.

"You oughtn't carry on so," Aziraphale murmured, stroking his hair.

Next, there was pleasant warmth in his belly, and the sensation of being lifted.

Crowley woke up with a fuzzy taste in his mouth. Also, it felt as if somebody had put a lead weight in his head while he was sleeping. He flailed at the bedclothes, panicked, and found himself sitting in the middle of a passable mattress in one of the rooms above the cantina. Aziraphale was sitting in one of the chairs in the corner, unconcernedly sipping wine from one of the cantina's best mugs. He smiled.

"Do you know, I thought for a while there that I had lost you?"

"Bloody nonsense," Crowley muttered, burrowing back under the covers.

He might throw up yet.

"Really, my dear, there's no need for that."

Crowley wanted to protest, but his tongue wasn't up to it. He groaned pitifully.

"Now, would you like to tell me what brought this on?"

"No," Crowley muttered, eyes open wide. He needed more wine.

The mattress dipped beside him, and Aziraphale's hand slipped gently through his hair. It caught some tangles on the way, which only made Crowley's headache worse, but it was better than letting the nightmares come back. Only they hadn't been nightmares.

"People," Crowley announced to the pillow, "are sick fucks."

"Very much so," Aziraphale agreed soberly, and kept stroking Crowley's hair.

Soon, dreamless, Crowley slept.

 

 

**The French**

Some things never changed, first and foremost among them that the Franks would always be a pack of wild barbarians no matter how many perfumes or exquisite entrees they invented. Aziraphale told Crowley this over the platter of _hors d'oeuvres_ they'd been sharing for the past half an hour.

Crowley disagreed.

"Nono, see," he said, swirling his wine around in the fine crystal glass, "they've become a lot more civilized about the whole thing. I mean, can you imagine them using guillotines as far back as Charlemagne?"

"No," said Aziraphale, "because they _didn't_."

"Well? See?" asked Crowley, gesturing with his glass, splashing wine on the linen tablecloth. "'S what I mean, exactly."

Aziraphale wondered if he ought to just stop while he was ahead.

Unfortunately, Crowley didn't think so.

"I mean," continued the demon, directing the string quartet for a moment with his fork, "when was the last time you saw 'em do something _really_ atrocious, eh?"

"This afternoon," said Aziraphale. He wondered how the same fellow who'd taken one look at thumb screws and needed a night-light could be so blasé about beheadings.

He asked Crowley, figuring that they were both drunk enough, and also recovered enough. The fourteenth century had been sedate even by Aziraphale's standards, except for that Chaucer scoundrel throwing the manuscript trade for a loop.

Crowley grew still, as if thinking it over.

"There's less screaming," he said, finally, eyes fixed on his glass, "and no hot pokers."

That night, they shared a suite in the hotel. While Crowley sprawled on the bed, Aziraphale read by candlelight and decided that they ought to return to England.

A bit of civilization would do Crowley a world of good.

 

 

**The Fallout**

If there was anything that Crowley hated about modern life, it was the way that people went to war all the time. It was overrated, for one, and furthermore, it was hell on the availability of luxury goods. He could only miracle himself so many five-course dinners before Aziraphale got tetchy. At least he didn't have to buy petrol.

The bombings, of course, put a damper on everything.

For efficiency's sake, they were sharing a flat. Crowley was sure that would have to change as soon as the war was over and decent accommodations were readily available. Aziraphale's nocturnal habits were atrocious: knocking about in the kitchenette at odd hours, all because he refused to miracle himself a cup of tea. And then there were the books, which took up too much space and collected dust.

At least Crowley didn't have to share the bed.

Just before dawn, a siren tore the sky from end to end.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale hissed, shaking Crowley roughly. " _Crowley!_ "

"Did you honestly think," Crowley said, rolling out of bed, "that I'd sleep _through_ this?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Aziraphale muttered, and then took hold of Crowley's arm. "Look," he said, loudly enough to be heard over the siren, "we've got to get out!"

Crowley glowered at the window, which shattered in a sudden burst of smoke and foundation-rocking thunder. The explosion threw them both to the floor, settling a fine layer of dust on their clothes before erupting again a few streets over.

Crowley seized Aziraphale by the shoulders and hauled him toward the door.

" _Run!_ "

The stairwell was, miraculously, unharmed, and the front door was unobstructed. They staggered out into the morning, which was wan and thick with smoke. The wailing sirens had multiplied, and the pavement was filled with screaming, frightened people.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, "we have to _do_ —"

"We have," insisted Crowley, taking him firmly by the wrist, "to get out of here."

The Bentley was parked exactly where Crowley had left it, though one of the headlights and part of the hood had suffered severe injuries as a result of falling debris. Crowley ignored the damage with all his strength and shoved Aziraphale through the passenger door, which opened at a thought.

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathed, one hand pressed to the window as Crowley threw the car into gear and tore into the street, which was clear because it had no other option. Crowley kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, avoiding pedestrians as best he could.

He hadn't felt like this since Pompeii.

 

 

**The Failure**

It was a dark and humid night, and, somewhere between Lower Tadfield Airbase and a certain bookshop in central London, a warm, gentle rain had begun to fall.

"Bloody thing," Crowley said, tapping on the windshield. "It'll need to be replaced."

In the background, Handel's _Water Music_ played serenely.

Aziraphale found the Jeep's air conditioning quite pleasant.

"It'll never be the same," moaned Crowley. "I'll never get used to this." As the traffic light turned, Crowley let off the brakes and screeched through the intersection.

"You missed the turn," Aziraphale said mildly.

"Oh, for Go—for Sa— _deal_ with it," said Crowley, exasperated. "We've shared a flat before. You can bloody well cope for one night. I'll take you home tomorrow."

"That's very kind of you," Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a sidelong glance.

The demon was pointedly not looking at him.

"Has nothing to do with it."

"On the contrary, I think it has everything to do with it. I've known you for long enough to know that you're a real gem when you put your mind to it."

In the rearview mirror, Aziraphale saw Crowley bite his lip.

"A real gem, is it."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, except for the rain pattering counterpoint to Handel. Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and glanced out the window. He felt a peace on the sleeping city that he hadn't felt for the longest time.

"Crowley?"

"Hmmm."

Aziraphale waited until he came to a stop at the next intersection, then cautiously laid his hand on Crowley's arm. "I'm very proud, you know," he said, feeling a breath catch in his throat, "of what you did out there tonight."

Crowley tensed, and the traffic light, which had been about to change, froze.

"What," he asked, hesitant, his eyes fixed straight ahead, "are you playing at?"

Aziraphale let the breath escape, then drew it back in again, terrified. He kept his hold on Crowley firm. "I know that you loved Pompeii," he pressed on, involuntarily squeezing Crowley's arm, "and I know the fourteenth century was—"

Crowley turned his head abruptly, and Aziraphale saw that his eyes, behind the sunglasses, were glazed with something quite close to unshed tears.

"Tell the whole blessed world, why don't you," he whispered, but this time there was no sarcasm in it. He bit his lip again, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

With a solemn nod, Aziraphale reached for Crowley's left hand and pried it loose from the steering wheel. Slowly, he brought it up to meet his lips.

"I will," said Aziraphale, kissing Crowley's knuckles, "and I have."

It was a dark and rainy night, but he had the feeling that they were going to enjoy it.


	2. For All the World

 

 

**For One Night**

They had, indeed, shared a flat before, but they had never shared a bed.

Once the shock had worn off, Aziraphale couldn't help but notice that Crowley was shaking. He tugged up the soft, white covers, sheets and duvet and all, and cradled Crowley's head where it rested against his shoulder. Outside, the rain was still pattering against the windowpane. They had left the lights on low, but that had been more out of neglect than by intention. Aziraphale closed his eyes and stroked the nape of Crowley's neck, carefully sliding his hand down the length of Crowley's spine.

Crowley shivered harder, pressing close. His leg was draped lazily over Aziraphale's hip, and it was the most distracting thing in the world, except for the fact that they weren't wearing anything and _hadn't_ been wearing anything for several hours.

"Are you comfortable?" asked Aziraphale, finally, feeling somewhat concerned despite the fact that he was, otherwise, drowsy and relaxed enough to consider sleep.

" _Mmm_ ," Crowley sighed, sounding roughly the same as Aziraphale felt. He was still shivering, and it occurred to Aziraphale then that perhaps he didn't even realize it.

"I agree," Aziraphale murmured, letting his hand drift up Crowley's back again. He didn't know if stroking soothed Crowley the way that it soothed humans, but it had always seemed to help in the past when Aziraphale had touched him even briefly.

On the contrary, Crowley tensed as if his roof had just sprung a leak on them.

Aziraphale felt his stomach clench. He'd seen this before, of course. Crowley's body had a way of making it abundantly clear that Crowley was panicking even when he was trying valiantly to pretend he _wasn't_ panicking. He'd just never been close enough to feel it, or at least hadn't been close enough in quite a few centuries.

He certainly hadn't been naked.

"It's gone, you know," Crowley mumbled. Aziraphale felt the demon's chest heave as if it had to expel the words by force. His uncontrollable shaking had only got worse. "There's not a single…" Crowley trailed off, twitching uncomfortably.

Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's hair. He'd settle for confused before he'd settle for stricken; a harsh reaction would make Crowley's anxiety worse.

"Crowley, what are you talking about?"

"The bookshop, you stupid prat. I can't believe I let this—let _go_."

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop through the mattress, but he held on, and nuzzled Crowley's ear. No use in letting it run away with you; better to ask and be sure.

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"Those bloody candles," Crowley said, his breath coming hard and fast. "I can't imagine why you had them burning, but there was the smell of wax under it all, and I could only save the one, you know, the girl's—"

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Yes, better safe than sorry, and he hadn't been either.

"What's done is done. We'll go over in the morning, so I can survey the damages."

Crowley's heart skipped a beat, hard enough to be felt.

"I'm not going in, angel."

"My dear, I'm not _blaming_ you."

After that, there is silence, and Crowley's shaking began to subside. Aziraphale wondered if there wasn't just something to those relationship books he'd once been shipped by mistake. Crowley responded well to soft kisses that weren't meant as an invitation to anything more than cuddling up to sleep, or at least _trying_ to sleep.

When Aziraphale lowered the lights, Crowley shivered his last, and was still.

 

 

**For Crying Out Loud**

In all truth—and, if he thought about it, he usually _was_ honest, no sense in denying it now that he'd declared himself—Crowley had never seen anything like it.

The day before, he had expected Aziraphale to come flying out of the shop at ten times his usual speed, in a rage, right toward the curb where Crowley was sitting in his faultlessly restored Bentley, and tell him to get out of there right this instant if he knew what was good for him. Instead, Aziraphale had strolled back out quite calmly, even with something of a light step, and had got back into the Bentley and had told Crowley that, yes, he still fancied that stroll in the park very much.

It was rather hard to believe that, now, forty-eight hours later, Aziraphale was having a full-on, dithering crisis thanks to a missing slip of paper.

"I know it's around here _somewhere_ ," said Aziraphale, pacing around to the other side of his desk. He dug under a thick sheaf of price guides and newspapers; they slid gracelessly onto the floor. He made a disgusted noise and scooped them all up. He stared at Crowley as if he'd forgot he wasn't alone in the shop.

Crowley wasn't sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all. He'd known Aziraphale could dither with the best of them, but he'd never seen Aziraphale so agitated over losing track of something that he suffered memory lapses. He hadn't been like this over the sword, or perhaps it was just that he hadn't got the _chance_.

"I'm sure it'll turn up," Crowley said, giving reassurance a crack. "This place _has_ fallen to a bit of disrepair, you know, and I'm sure Adam couldn't remember exactly where to put _everything_ , especially when all he had to work with was ashes."

Aziraphale stared at him, then resumed shuffling through papers even though there wasn't much left to search. He ran his fingers over the wood of the desk, desperately, as if he couldn't believe the paper wasn't there. Fist clenched, he struck it.

"This isn't getting you anywhere," Crowley said without thinking, crossing the room. He took hold of Aziraphale's wrist and worked his thumb under Aziraphale's fingertips, prying them free. He'd never known Aziraphale to tense up like this, unless it was during a ride in the Bentley when Crowley was speeding or traffic was horrendous.

"Crowley, I've _got_ to find it. We're wasting time. Let _go_ of—"

"No," said Crowley, simply, and used his grip on Aziraphale's wrist to turn the angel to face him. "Now," he said, meeting Aziraphale's glazed eyes, "what's _on_ this paper, exactly?" He let go of Aziraphale's wrist and took him by the shoulders instead.

"Information," Aziraphale said evasively, and tried to pull away, his eyes darting back to the other side of the desk, which was where he'd looked already.

Crowley held him still, which took more force than he'd had to use in ages.

"I think you're blowing this out of proportion," Crowley said reasonably, patting Aziraphale's shoulder, letting go of the other. "After all, it turned out you were blowing the whole sword thing out of proportion. I mean, look, it turned up in due course, and nobody was the worse for it. It was supposed to happen like that, wouldn't you say?"

Aziraphale glared at him, but he at least seemed to be listening.

"I suppose so," he said reluctantly.

"What's on that paper, anyway?"

"Recipes," said Aziraphale, wretchedly.

"Come on," Crowley said, ignoring the impulse to roll his eyes, and gave Aziraphale a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm taking you to Blackwell's. They've got a cooking section."

All too willingly, Aziraphale let himself be led out of the bookshop.

 

**For the Time Being**

They were in Crowley's bed again, tired and sated, and they'd been asleep for hours (as nearly as Aziraphale could tell) before things had taken a turn for the worse.

He hadn't known Crowley wasn't a sound sleeper.

That was an understatement, when what had awakened you was a hard kick in the shin and an unintelligible shout. It was only once the haze of pain had cleared (Aziraphale's mind was too foggy for him to make it subside) that he realized Crowley was covered in sweat and shaking, though it was different than before.

"My dear," whispered Aziraphale, tentatively, "what is it?"

"Nothing," Crowley muttered, his voice thick, and turned over so that his back was to Aziraphale. There was the unmistakable sound of his fingers winding in the sheet.

Aziraphale sighed, blinking at the dark ceiling. Nightmares: he'd never had one before, but he was certain that plenty of his waking existence had been worse than any nightmare ever could be. The same probably went for Crowley, though sleeping had undoubtedly added an unnecessary dimension of horrors to it over time. How dreadful.

"It's all right, you know," Aziraphale said, cautiously setting his hand on Crowley's side. He could feel that Crowley was breathing high and shallow.

"Why don't _you_ try dreaming, and then see how you feel about it."

"I don't doubt that I will, eventually," Aziraphale said tentatively, fanning his fingers over Crowley's ribs. He wanted to make the breathing stop if it would calm Crowley.

He wanted to do something, but he had no idea _what_.

"Then get to it, and leave a message after the beep," Crowley grumped, and turned onto his stomach so that his face was buried in the overstuffed pillow.

Aziraphale took hold of him and turned him back over again, sighing.

"You might try telling me about it," he ventured. "I've heard that helps."

"I've heard that amateur therapy can really screw you up."

"Crowley! I meant—"

"Help," Crowley whispered, curling over, and buried his face in Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I will," Aziraphale promised, holding him tight. "I'll try."

After several long minutes, Crowley's breathing subsided, ceasing into sleep.

 

 

 

**For Heaven's Sake**

Crowley had heard a lot of suspicious noises in his time, and he'd even been the cause of a fair number. Still, that was different from hearing them in his own kitchen. It was as if a miniature thunderstorm had decided to possess his pots and pans.

He poked his head in and blinked, unnecessarily, horrified.

"You've rearranged everything," said Aziraphale, accusingly, and picked up a sieve that had rolled to a stop at his feet. "I can't find the colander, if you've even got one."

"Why d'you need a colander?" Crowley asked. There were two pots on the stove, and one of them was close to boiling over. He turned off the heat with a wave of his hand.

"Thank you," Aziraphale said, clearly distracted, and went back to scanning the mess on the floor, one hand twisted in the knit hem of his pullover vest. There wasn't a colander on the floor, and both of them could see that. Clearly, in fact.

Crowley waved up the mess and said, "Look, you just go like this—"

Aziraphale caught his hand mid-gesture, exasperated.

"I want to do it properly," he insisted. "You've never made pasta before, have you?"

"No, why should I when there's take-away from Franco's?"

Aziraphale huffed, then produced a colander out of thin air and turned to the stove.

"Get out of the kitchen. It's going to be soggy on account of your meddling."

"I'm not the one who decided to empty my crockery cupboards onto the floor."

"Please," said Aziraphale, dangerously irritated, transferring one steaming pot to the sink. "You're distracting me. Go away."

And that, of course, was exactly what Aziraphale needed.

"Yes, in fact," said Crowley, going the exact opposite of away. He avoided an upset teakettle and stepped up behind Aziraphale. The angel flinched when Crowley slid an arm around him, but he set the pot down in the sink beside the colander and waited. "That's exactly what I'm doing, and I'm going to do no such thing. If it's pasta you want, I'll order it in. For my part, I'm not really hungry." He nuzzled Aziraphale's ear.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale relaxed.

"Your actions would suggest, er, otherwise."

"Of course," replied Crowley, reasonably, and kissed the back of Aziraphale's neck. "Besides, it's a little too early for dinner, wouldn't you say?"

"I needed time to prepare," protested Aziraphale. He slid one hand over Crowley's, not so much staying as encouraging. All the same, he didn't move, eyes fixed on the pot.

"Angel," Crowley murmured, reaching over to close the book open on the counter.

Decisively, Aziraphale snatched Crowley's hand away and closed it himself.

 

 

 

**For a While**

Crowley fell asleep before they could discuss dinner, but Aziraphale was past worrying. They didn't _really_ need to eat, no more than they really needed to sleep. Troubling, though, that something Crowley had always enjoyed wasn't lately enjoyable. Perhaps it hadn't ever been consistent: to Aziraphale, it seemed hit and miss.

As drowsy as Aziraphale felt, he stayed awake, waiting.

Near dawn, Crowley shouted and thrashed at the covers, narrowly missing Aziraphale's shin. Aziraphale tried to hold him still, but Crowley twisted away.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, shaking him when he fought back. " _Crowley_."

The demon shivered and went still, panting hard.

"Tired of this," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

"I'm sure," Aziraphale said, pushing back the covers to give Crowley some breathing space. He let go of Crowley, then, but Crowley made no move to escape him.

"It's funny, but I don't think about those things," Crowley whispered. "At all."

"No," agreed Aziraphale, bringing his hand up to Crowley's cheek. He could imagine what those things were, thinking back, and there were a disturbing lot of them.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Crowley sighed and closed his eyes.

"Thanksss."

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss.

"For…what, exactly?"

"Not asking," said Crowley, stretching against Aziraphale, relieved.

"Of course," Aziraphale murmured, and kissed him softly on the mouth.

They didn't sleep until after sunrise, and Crowley's dreams retreated with the dark.

 

 

 

**For Nothing**

From the very second they set foot in Harrod's, Crowley was reminded of why he avoided shopping, _any_ kind of shopping, at all costs. Unless he could do it by mail.

"It's not very flattering," said Aziraphale, holding up the suit jacket dubiously.

"Good color," Crowley said, leaning on the rack and examining his fingernails. "Er, on you, I mean. Very flattering. I can't imagine why more people don't give it a try."

"Everybody gives it a try. If you really want to know, that's why I've developed an aversion to it. It's so unoriginal. Everybody dresses like y—this these days."

Crowley let his hand drop and stared at Aziraphale, eyes narrowed.

"You don't like the way I dress, then?"

"No, that's not it," said Aziraphale, emphatically, placing the jacket precisely back on the hanger. "You've found a way of making it work." Vaguely, he indicated Crowley's boots and sunglasses. "I can't say as I know anybody else who does—er, that."

"Then there's the trick, angel," Crowley said, pulling the suit off the rack, checking the price tag. Marvelous; Aziraphale always did love paying for his apparel. "Black ought to be in everybody's wardrobe. You've just got to find a way to own it."

"I look washed out," Aziraphale said, appalled, as Crowley held it back up under his chin and turned him back toward the mirror. "I really ought to stick to tans and—"

"Humor me," Crowley suggested, peering over Aziraphale's shoulder and appraising the odd scene that they struck in the mirror. "Please? This was your idea, not mine."

"I said I needed to replace the _shirt_ ," said Aziraphale, emphatically, shoving the suit back into Crowley's hands. "Not the whole suit."

"Right, you can't go wrong with a new shirt," Crowley agreed, setting it aside on the chair he'd occupied until a few moments ago and picking up the neatly packaged white linen shirt that Aziraphale had already chosen. "Or a new black suit to go with. You never know when you might have to attend a funeral."

"My dear, that's morbid."

"No, that's life," said Crowley, smoothing the packaged shirt against Aziraphale's chest. "There, look. It'll keep you from looking washed out. And you can stick that little silver pin that you got in Italy all those years ago right here, see?"

"In Italy," Aziraphale repeated, his eyes suddenly distant.

"Yeah," Crowley sighed, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. When he'd said he never thought about certain things, damn it, he'd _meant_ —

"I'll wear it to dinner if you like," Aziraphale said, stepping away. He went over to the chair and collected the suit, then held the two items up together.

"Dinner?" Crowley echoed.

"Yes, quite," said Aziraphale, almost cheerfully. "Now, let's get these paid for."

That night, they dined at the Ritz, and Crowley found it difficult not to stare. Maybe black wasn't Aziraphale's color after all: the angel _did_ look paler than usual. Out of tact, though, Crowley didn't say anything. Aziraphale let him pick the wine.

As soon as they got back, Crowley found himself shooed in the door and wrapped firmly in Aziraphale's arms there in the darkened hall for what felt like an eternity.

Later, on the bed, for the first time, Aziraphale kissed him from mouth to belly, and then lower, until Crowley fell back against the pillows, gasping, and came with a sob.

He fell asleep with Aziraphale draped over him, and didn't dream at all.

 

 

 

**For Now**

Aziraphale wasn't accustomed to waking up after sunrise.

Crowley was still asleep, sprawled out under him with his had thrown to one side, snoring softly. Aziraphale lifted his head, considering this for a moment, wondering if Crowley had slept well of his own accord, or if it had been the lovemaking. Or the fact that Aziraphale had pinned him down and kept him from moving.

As if he felt Aziraphale's eyes on him, Crowley opened his own and blinked, blinded for a second by the brightness streaming through the bedroom window. He shaded his eyes with one weak hand, then made a soft, hissing sound of disgust.

"Didn't close the blinds?"

"No," Aziraphale admitted. "We didn't."

"I guess nobody would've been watching. Too dark, and we're up too far."

"I don't know, those neighbors of yours across the street are, er, interesting."

"They like a good party now and then," said Crowley, approvingly.

"Not last night," Aziraphale said. "Would you prefer them closed next time?"

Crowley yawned again, shrugging.

"'S up to you. I don't exactly live here."

"Funny, but that's what we've been doing these past few weeks."

Instantly, Aziraphale regretted saying it. Crowley froze under him, unblinking, then closed his eyes as if he'd suddenly developed a ferocious, sun-induced headache.

"It's too early to be awake," he said.

"I beg to differ, eleven is _quite_ a reasonable—"

"Shut up," muttered Crowley, and threw the covers up over their heads.

This, Aziraphale thought as they kissed, might be progress.

 

 

 

**For the Love of G—Sa— _Argh_**

Crowley buried his face in his hands and hoped it would be over soon.

As usual, Aziraphale had no clue what he was doing. Crowley was already more organized than was generally good for him, but going in and organizing things even _more_ was just taking the joke too far. Wasn't alphabetical order enough?

"You've done them all by title," Aziraphale said for the third time, pulling another stack of books off the shelf and watching the dust roll off them with horrified fascination. "By _title_ , Crowley. Don't tell me your compact discs are in disarray, too."

"You'd do it that way, too, if titles were what you remembered things by," said Crowley, irritated. He shifted on the sofa and looked the other way, pretending to be interested in the window. "No, my music is _not_ like that, thank you very much. I remember artists. It's writers I'm bad with, you'd be amazed."

"I _am_ ," said Aziraphale, sorting the books into separate piles, some of which were threatening to topple, but didn't dare, because Aziraphale was in charge, and when it came to books, Aziraphale's word was law. "Your memory's usually so sharp."

"Consider it your reformation project," Crowley muttered, selecting a magazine off the table. He flipped through a few pages, then glanced surreptitiously across the room again. Aziraphale had all the contents of his bookshelf on the floor and seemed more intent upon examining each book individually than actually putting them back.

"You've got some quite wonderful paperbacks," Aziraphale said at length, and waved his hand at one of the stacks. It obediently arranged itself on the top shelf. "Out of curiosity, how many of these have you read?"

"Most of them," said Crowley, rolling up the magazine. If he took careful enough aim, he'd be able to send the stack of B-authors tumbling onto Aziraphale's head.

Aziraphale clucked his tongue and sent the stack up to join the A-section.

"Really, my dear," he murmured, and picked up a lonely hardback with interest.

Crowley unrolled the magazine and made a mental note of which book it was. He'd see to it personally that its new career as a flowerpot coaster got off on the right page. He'd been neglecting the plants, after all. They were probably feeling jealous.

"Oh, and don't worry about the plants," Aziraphale added, standing to place the hardcover on the shelf by hand. "I watered them this morning."

Crowley threw the magazine, but all it got him was insufferable, _wonderful_ laughter.

 

 

 

**For As Long As It Takes**

The nightmares came back, because nothing leaves indefinitely.

Aziraphale had to shake Crowley awake, digging into Crowley's shoulders with bruising force, because speaking to Crowley as loud has he could hadn't been of any use. Aziraphale had caught some words in Crowley's shouting this time, and as much as they pained him, they didn't surprise him: _didn't do it_ , _volcano_ , _you bastard_ , and _run_.

He was grateful that no torture devices had shown up.

Crowley panted, abruptly jerking awake.

"Said…I don't…think…"

"Thinking," Aziraphale said slowly, bracing his hands on Crowley's shaking elbows, "is not the same as dreaming. You may not _think_ about these things, but clearly you—"

"Had a few yourself, have you?" Crowley retorted around a yawn.

Unable to think of what else to do, Aziraphale shook him again.

"Nightmares, Crowley," said Aziraphale, harshly, making sure that his breath grazed Crowley's ear and that every word would strike its mark. "Every minute of every day that I have no blessed idea what's haunting you, or how I might ease it."

After a few moments of stunned silence, Crowley swallowed hard.

"They're not going to stop," he murmured. "I can't make…"

"You're too hard on yourself," Aziraphale sighed, smoothing Crowley's damp hair.

"Not harder than time," Crowley whispered, his fingers curling at Aziraphale's shoulder. " _Nothing_ has been harder than time, do you know that?"

"Yes," Aziraphale replied, keeping his voice quiet. "That's not going to stop, either."

"Neither will you," Crowley said, and finally, tiredly, _smiled_.


End file.
